Dry means Ultramar's trash bin has no refundable recyclables to add to the mounting collection in the custom-built wagon he tows behind his bike. Dry means it's time to move along to nearby restaurants.

Coasting alongside traffic on Windsor‚Äôs busy Wentworth Road, Ryan's in his glory. His grin as steady as his pace, he is undeterred by unhappy motorists.

Cars honk. Ryan hums.

‚ÄúThe best place to rest your backside is on a bicycle seat,‚ÄĚ he says.

He keeps pushing, pedalling down the route he travels three times a day in search of cans and bottles to cash in for five cents each. On a good week, he'll find $50 worth. The cash is stashed for medications, or little extras around the apartment he shares with the wife - and small donations to needy children at Christmas.

But it‚Äôs not about the money. Ryan has a pension for that.

‚ÄúI wouldn't give it up for nothing,‚ÄĚ he vows. ‚ÄúIf I can't ride my bike you might as well just dig a hole in the ground, drop me in it and cover me over.‚ÄĚ

Ryan almost wound up six feet under a year and a half ago. He has the triple bypass that gave him a second chance after his first heart attack to thank for every blissful bike ride he enjoys.

‚ÄúI'm not going to pull no punches with nobody; I can't sit still.‚ÄĚ

Three years ago, Ryan tipped the scales at 283 pounds. Today, he weighs in at 164.

‚ÄúThis is the old girl that did it,‚ÄĚ he jests, patting the seat of his bicycle.

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